Dive
by Xerxies19
Summary: A look at the rebuilding of the bond between Altair and Malik. Set after the events of the first game and based loosely on the bits we learn through the Codex found in 2. Preslash leading up to non-explicit slash. Some spoilers for both games.


**A/N: This work of fiction loosely follows the canon events recounted in the Codex pages written by Altair and found by Ezio in Assassin's Creed 2. I guess if you haven't played 2 you're in for a few spoilers, but nothing massive. The entirety of this fic is about the characters and setting of Assassin's Creed 1, Altair and Malik. It is also slash, male/male (mostly preslash, but who's counting?).** **No serious gore, some mentions of blood and injury. Please also read the second, third, and fourth Author's Note at the end.**

There were select few things that Malik yearned for in the quiet times between assigning marks, sending pigeons, and wrestling Altair from his precious Apple. The most obvious one being his arm back, on the days when the sky was grey and there were too many missions for too few assassins, or when he pounded until his arm was sore at the door of the greatest assassin who ever lived begging him to stop studying the Piece of Eden and eat.

The others weren't as easily seen, things he never spoke of. Yearning not to be the head of their clan, too great a leap for a troubled mind to be suddenly burdened with budgets, missions, and tallying the growing casualties. Yearning for his brother to be returned to him, if only that they may have another able body. Yearning for peace between the cities. The greatest of these wants, what most occupied his mind when he lay in bed at night, was for the light to come back into Altair's storm grey eyes.

Ever since he had sat down with the Apple, his eyes had grown dark and heavy. He spoke often of his discoveries and new understandings, but there was always something there he didn't speak of, some great, terrible knowledge making his entire body seem burdened. Even when he spent time with his newborn sons, his smile never made it to his eyes. Maria seemed concerned as well, but not in a position to speak of it. She tried, once, and he evaded the topic and left for a month to track a mark believed to hold valuable information.

As the time he spent with the artifact increased, so did the distance and weight in his eyes. His fit body began to waste away, slowly and despite all attempts to send him out into the field to get exercise. He began to lock himself into his room, not leaving for days. The final time Malik had to beat his fist against the great wooden door until he bled to get the man out. Altair had held Malik then, face buried in the great black robe he wore, and the one armed assassin would deny the wetness he found there until his dying day.

The next day Altair had requested that the Apple be placed under heavy guard, buried in the treasury. He rarely touched it, instead throwing himself into more and more dangerous missions. One day he rode out of the compound to take a mark in Damascus, only to return the next day riding a dark red beauty of a steed, with a white mane and tail, and with all four slender legs covered in a perfect mimicry of silk stockings. He named her simply "Silk" in their native Arabic. No one questioned it, there were more eccentric things he could have, and had, done.

As he set to work improving their weaponry and assassination techniques with Malik, he and his wife grew estranged. Between their disagreements over the upbringing of their sons, Altair's obsession with the Apple, and whether or not he should cease running dangerous missions, it seemed as though their passion had fled in the face of reality. She moved to Acre, taking his sons with her. She promised to return them once they came of age to train to become assassins, but it did little to soften the blow. His eyes grew hard, even more distant.

He found small joy, though, in spending time with Silk. He would often leave in the lull between high-ranking missions just to ride her across the great open landscape between the major cities. They grew close, she would walk right up to him as soon as he left the great wooden gates of the stronghold, would brave cuts and tumbles from his repeated charging of entire squads of Templars, and had even been known to swim across deep rivers for him. It was touching enough that the stable hands went out of their way to ensure Silk got the best care possible, and maybe just a few too many treats.

It felt like such a long time since Altair had failed so miserably that Malik lost his arm and brother, the entire fortress threatened by his idiocy. The man from then and the man who always looked at him with a quiet remorse, an apology no longer necessary but given ceaselessly nonetheless…They were not the same man. He often wondered which one he preferred. One had caused him to lose nearly everything, and the other was wise and broken, his closest friend twisted by knowledge no one should obtain.

He missed the man's spirit, the wild unburdened eagle that soared from the greatest heights to land without a scratch. He wanted to know how to bring his friend back; he needed to know. Unfortunately, no amount of assassins dispatched could ever provide the information he needed, and so he did nothing but listen to his old companion as he whispered about concocting poisons and the creation of superior armor.

It was a fairly simple mission, infiltrate a barracks in Acre and kill a target there. Altair had been the only one capable of it, the other assassins too inexperienced to manage to strike a heavily guarded target in a closed space and escape unscathed. The head of the clan thought nothing of sending him, it was hardly the most difficult thing he'd done.

He still thought it had to have been some mistake when reports came in from men in the tower that a badly injured man was riding a horse with bloodied silk stockings at a gallop toward the gates. He ran to meet the rider, blood draining from his face when he recognized the silvery white robes that only Altair wore, stained red, arrows protruding from his back as he slumped on the neck of his beloved horse. The beast didn't seem much better off, arrows sticking out of her rump, her legs sliced to the bone in some areas.

"Malik, the Templars," the wounded assassin coughed, catching his breath, "they ride for the fortress, several hundred strong. They…want…" he slid out of the saddle and into the one-armed grasp of his friend, who barked something about closing the gates and preparing for battle before handing the man off to waiting healers and following them back up the hill to the tower. By the time the battle was over, Malik couldn't remember a single thing he said to the strategists, only the feeling of Altair's hand clasped in his as the healers pulled the arrows out of his back and the look in his eyes when he gazed over at the elder assassin before passing out again.

Malik never did learn what precisely they had wanted that they would strike just then, though one could guess, this being the first mission where Altair wore the armor he had developed with the Apple's knowledge. The armor that had narrowly managed to save his life.

Three days later Altair was allowed to move from his bed, provided he do so with an escort. No one needed to ask who was assigned to assist him, their master having never left his side for more than a few hours. Leaning heavily on his old friend, he asked after the casualty numbers, surprisingly low considering the number of combatants they faced. They took a break on a nearby bench when he became short of breath, just a few hundred feet from where they started. Malik could sense his frustration in the lines of tension on his face, the way he tensed his bandage bound chest to force it to stop heaving.

After a while, he asked after Silk, eyes guarded. He expected the worst. And Malik had nothing else to offer him.

"Altair," he began, steeling himself, "They did the best they could for her. She ran too hard on legs too badly injured. She'll never stand under her own power again. They've made her as comfortable as they can, she feels no pain, her veins are thick with a slow poison that blocks out any pain. We wanted to wait until you were able to see her last time. She…It's-it's the humane thing to do. She can't be forced to continue living like this, until infection takes her."

He nodded, grey eyes staring off into the distance. The lines on his face eased, face devoid of expression.

"Can you take me to her? I would like to end it as quickly as possible. She served me well, I owe her at least this, a quick end to her suffering," the words were whispered, thoughtful. Altair rarely acted in haste, every movement, every word, was carefully considered and chosen, even if it happened in seconds. At least this was true ever since he was thrown down to the ranks of novice, working his way back up by assassinating the nine Templars, years ago.

Nodding, not trusting his voice, the elder helped his wounded comrade down to the stables. Young men were still tending to her, feeding her treats and placing cold compresses along her graceful neck to keep her cool in the summer heat. She whinnied, lifting her head to look at her master, bandaged legs moving pitifully in an attempt to lift her to meet him. Altair mumbled something to her in a soothing voice Malik had rarely heard him use and she settled. The others moved away, giving him distance. It seemed everyone knew of his fondness for the beast.

He knelt by her head, stroking her moist coat smooth as he continued to mumble to her, sometimes in English, sometimes in Arabic, sometimes in a language Malik couldn't make out; probably something learned from the Piece of Eden. He wasn't sure how much time passed, only that after the grey-eyed assassin had lulled her nearly to sleep, he called for one of the master of Masyaf's throwing knives. Handing the weapon over, the one-armed man wanted to look away. But rarely around Altair were the right things the ones that brought him immediate comfort, and he forced his eyes to witness the man whisper some last secret word to her before plunging the knife into her skull. Her body twitched several times, her eyes glassy.

His hands shook, his whole body shook as he stood slowly, head down. Small sobs wracked Altair's body. As he stood there, watching, waiting for when he was needed, Malik felt his eyes sting with unformed tears. Blinking, chest tight, he wanted to weep, not for the horse, but for what she represented, for the one last happiness in the great assassin's life that had been mercilessly torn from him as all the others had.

He finally turned, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks as he leaned on the other man for support, mumbling those foreign words to him with a strange expression on his face.

Malik rarely encountered moments that left him completely speechless, at least not when some sort of verbalization was necessary. He stared blankly at the messenger, mouth slightly open, for several minutes before asking him to repeat what he had just said. Altair was last seen falling into the port in Acre, by the accounts of witnesses never resurfacing. Altair had drowned twelve hours ago. Altair was dead. Altair was dead. His hand and voice shook as he told the messenger to leave him, turning to stare out the window. The sky was the same grey as his eyes, one of Malik's favorite colors. It couldn't be true. The greatest assassin to ever live didn't die by _drowning,_ pushed into the water by a crazed drunk.

He fled to his room, slamming the door shut and ensuring that it was locked securely before putting his face in his hand and weeping. Weeping for all the sadness and pain the two had suffered together, weeping for the loss of the man closest to him, weeping because he never told Altair how much he meant to him.

He was standing near the stable, staring at the grave marker for Silk, the only steed to be given such an honor in Masyaf history. It had been two days since Altair had been proclaimed dead by those who witnessed the accident. Or maybe three. Shouting managed to penetrate the air around Malik, thick with his somber mood, and he glanced up to where a watch was gesturing wildly and shouting. Something about a man in their garb on horseback. Riding a giant beast with a pitch black coat and silk stockings. Perfect. Silk. Stockings.

Blood roared in his ears as his heart pounded in his chest. It was impossible. But then, so was Altair drowning. Perhaps being resurrected wasn't beyond the realm of what the man could manage when he felt like bending reality. Or maybe the leader of the Masyaf was getting his hopes up.

He strode over to the open gates to greet whoever happened to be arriving, trying to keep his hand from shaking. The man was wearing a black version of the assassin garb, which Altair had had dyed after his horse died. Something about being a less obvious target in dark colors. The slow smirk on his face as the horse skidded to a halt in front of the one-armed man broke him, tears already pricking at the back of his eyes.

"Malik, you seem surprised to see me. Did something happen?" The man who might be Altair or a figment of his imagination said, a hint of his old cocky attitude showing through. His eyes were bright and alert, he looked alive for the first time in years.

He dismounted, only to be dragged into the tightest embrace one could manage with only one arm. Malik wept now, openly, unafraid to show his joy in front of comrades. Returning the embrace, Altair buried his face into the crook of his friend's neck. The elder assassin could feel the wetness there, and the smile pressed against his skin. His lips moved against it as he said those same words in another language, the sounds gentle and warm even if he didn't understand them.

There was something odd about the man who returned, not just the life in his eyes, but the way Malik occasionally caught him smiling during their work on forging new and better hidden blades. Perhaps the older man was hallucinating, seeing that slight upturn at the corners of his mouth in the flickering candlelight that cast shadows on their faces as they worked out percentages, only because he wanted it to be there. But no, Altair caught him staring and grinned. This slow, bright smile that wasn't quite a smirk but had all the audacity of one, that made the room suddenly too small to encompass the man who owned it. The master of Masyaf struggled to find his voice, to ask the question that had been hammering around in his brain since his friend had returned mere days ago.

"How did you survive? Last I knew you couldn't swim, and with that armor…No one saw you come back up to the surface."

The grin turned into a full, warm smirk now, instead of disappearing like the darker eyed man assumed it would, "I didn't want to die. I was sinking to the bottom of the port, and I finally realized what I had to lose, what I had to live for. I wanted to _live_, for the first time in years. That was enough."

He didn't doubt it, that the sheer will to live would be enough to save this man from drowning. He who unraveled the secrets of an ancient civilization, who struck down ten of the most powerful men in this time in history and more still beyond that, he who spoke in tongues no longer, or not yet, known to man. It would be child's play in comparison.

"I am glad that you returned," he said slowly, meaning more than just returning from his watery grave. This man sitting beside him was the person he'd been waiting for, this great black eagle, finally returned to the sky where he belonged.

"I am glad to have been correct," Altair returned, something soft in his voice.

"About what?"

"I thought…hoped I had something to return to," the younger assassin said quietly, continuing on into those same words he kept uttering.

"What do they mean? Those words you say. You keep repeating them, but no matter how much you say it, I won't understand."

"I think you do understand. Or you would, if you took a moment to think. I am certain the leader of an entire clan of assassins could manage something so simple."

Malik blinked several times, not quiet believing his ears. Did his old friend just make a jab at him? He hadn't in years, since before he apologized for costing the older assassin so much. It was one of many things he missed. He felt the corners of his mouth rising against his will, his smile answered by one so bright he saw spots.

"Come, old friend. Let us give up on these endeavors for the night. I haven't introduced you to Sable. He's the descendant of Robert's warhorse. I stole him," he offered, standing and clapping the other on the shoulder, looking as devious as he had every right to.

Shaking his head at his companion's antics, he stood and followed him out of the room and down to the stables where the massive horse was kept. The great beast trotted over to meet them, easily clearing the 4 foot swinging stall beams that acted as doors from a standing start. Altair spoke to Sable in English, what the horse was used to, before switching over to the language only he knew. Malik strained to pick up any of the words that were constantly being spoken to him, but nothing bearing a resemblance to them was said.

Somehow the grey-eyed man convinced him to go out for a ride, and Malik didn't realize quite what he had agreed to until they were galloping across the fields, the older man forced to wrap his arm around the other to stay in the saddle. He wasn't sure what scared him more, the comforting warmth of the body pressed against his or the secretive smile of the man in front of him.

They were working out a list of those who were going to be allowed to carry two hidden blades, a unique idea Altair had pulled from the Apple the last time he spent a few hours with it. Malik didn't agree with him when he said that perhaps short term use every few weeks would produce the results they needed without the unwanted side effects, but he wasn't about to exercise any kind of control. He knew better than to try to clip the wings of this bird of prey.

The younger assassin frowned, pausing in his suggestions to pointedly not look at the other. He looked guilty, or sad. Maybe both.

"What is it now?" Malik asked, quirking an eyebrow in a mix of exasperation and confusion. He was rather certain that the other had felt enough guilt in the past few years to cover everything that came before and everything that was still to come, so in his mind, the grey-eyed man could just stop looking like a kicked puppy over things that were largely out of his control.

"I'm sorry, if I hadn't-"

"I swear, if you say that you're sorry about my arm one more time, I will punch you," the master snapped, mind quickly putting two and two together. Writing up a list of people to wield two hidden blades had apparently reminded him that Malik couldn't use one at all, and had been demoted for it so long ago.

"You wouldn't," Altair dared, fighting to keep back a smirk.

"Try me. You are far overdue for a sound thrashing."

The corners of the eagle's mouth twitched, allowing himself to be baited far easier than he used to, "I'm sor-"

He didn't even try to dodge the punch thrown at his jaw, was actually _smiling_ as it landed. The older man didn't hit him hard, not even enough to split his cheek, but all the same it knocked him to the floor from his perch on a stool. The downed man's foot lashed out, kicking Malik's own stool out from under him. He landed with a thump on the other, and before either knew what was happening they were in a rather heated wrestling match on the floor. Superior height, more practice in the field and the use of one more limb left Altair the victor, pinning his opponent to the ground with his arm carefully twisted behind his back.

"You're getting gentle in your old age Altair. Eight years ago you would have drawn blood without a second thought," eight years ago, when Kadar was still alive and the man on top of him was an insufferable ass. The other smiled softly and helped him back to his feet.

"Things change, Malik," he replied, hand resting on the master's shoulder. His bright eyes softened for a moment and he said those words again, more forcefully than usual. The one-armed assassin had a sneaking suspicion what they meant, pinning it down to about three to five words judging by the time between the syllables. But it was so absurd he couldn't make his hypothesis known, not yet.

"They do. But some things will always be the same," the dark-eyed assassin returned, placing his right hand on Altair's shoulder and squeezing. They stood there for a moment in warm silence, then set the stools to rights and went back to work. Malik wondered if the atmosphere of the room had changed, or if it was just him thinking that it was too small to contain the eagle's great wings.

Malik was overseeing the training of some novices, young men who were merely children when the fortress was attacked. Some still bore grudges, their parents slain at the hands of the Templars, their brothers and sisters. For some their entire family had been lost. The one currently training his counter attacks against Altair, who had finally been successfully dragged into becoming a combat trainer, had lost his mother; his father had lost a hand.

Dark eyes narrowed as he observed the way the boy of seventeen went at the older man with a ferocity that was completely unwarranted, especially when he was supposed to be waiting for his opponent to make a move. Sharp eyes caught the small blade just a split second after Altair had. The assassin dropped his sword and drew his twin hidden blades in the space of a breath, crossing them to catch the poisoned tip just hairs from the space between his eyes. Drawing them apart spent the weapon flying, and an expert kick left the boy sprawling in the dirt as other spectators jumped into the ring to capture him before he did something else he'd regret.

Malik was upon him in an instant, words spilling from his mouth before he even thought them, "Do you have any idea the gravity of your crime? Attempting to kill an assassin without cause or assignment carries the death penalty."

"I have enough cause. That bastard killed my mother and half of Masyaf! If it wasn't for his incompetence she'd still be alive, and if it wasn't for Al-Mualim's weakness for him he'd already be dead like he deserves to be! Did you all forget what that traitor has done so quickly?" The boy shouted, fighting against his captors to rise to his feet, four men barely able to restrain his arms.

The grey-eyed assassin's head was bowed, his black hood obscuring his face. His body language was easy to read, so tense it looked like he couldn't decide whether to run or cry. Or both. Up until then, the master had never laid a hand upon his assassins, or the trainees. He'd had no reason to. And so he was almost surprised when his hand made a fist of its own volition and crashed into the boy's face hard enough to knock him back down and shatter his nose. Almost surprised.

"Every one of us here has made a great mistake in their life. Many times that mistake cost lives that needn't have been taken. Altair's mistake cost many people their lives that day, but afterwards he not only saved the lives of peasants crying out for help in the city streets, but rode out alone, wounded and tired, against the combined armies of Solomon and King Richard, an entire squad of Templars, and the leader of the Templar army. Then he rode for Masyaf, and rescued everyone from the grasp of a madman with the power and knowledge of a god.

"If it weren't for Altair, none of us would be alive. If not killed by the Templar army, then our minds and wills would have been stolen by the very Piece of Eden I brought to Al-Mualim all those years ago. If you ever raise a weapon in malice against one of our own again, I will have you thrown from the watchtower into the canyon below."

He turned then, beckoning for his solemn black eagle to follow him. Grey eyes shined a little too brightly under the hood for his liking, he knew the other needed to get away long enough to gather himself. He supposed anyone condemned as a mass murderer of his companions and countrymen would need to.

"Thank you."

"You needn't thank me for what I would have done anyways. He was wrong you know-"

"It is my fault all those people died, Malik," Altair interrupted him as they entered the small room they used to do work meant to be kept from the eyes of others.

"It is. However, Al-Mualim did not let you live because he had a soft spot for you. He was greedy for your talent, knew you and you alone would be able to assassinate those nine templars if you could merely swallow your pride. He expected that you would simply allow what happened after because you looked up to him. He underestimated you.

"In my eyes, you earned your right to live despite your mistakes long ago, when you lifted your blade against the man that raised you in order to save a world that despised you. If redemption is truly possible, then I believe you attained it," Malik paused, wondering if he should continue and deciding that the other deserved to hear it, "If I was in Al-Mualim's place, I would have spared your life. Even then, I may have wished you dead, but I would not have taken your life myself. Your mistake cost many people their lives or limbs, but I do not believe someone should die over a single mistake, especially if they can work to redeem themselves.

"I honestly never thought I could forgive you as long as you continued to live. But you changed, Altair. You became a man who spent more of his time and blood rescuing civilians than planning the hunt and picking fights for fun. You realized your own failings, questioned both your own perceptions and the mission you were tasked with. You actually apologized to someone other than your master. You are not the same man you were. I don't think you need to continue feeling guilty over the crimes committed in another life."

Altair's eyes were easy to read, open like a book now. Warmth, appreciation, relief, and a sadness that hid behind all these, always there. They still shone brightly, turning the storm grey into a glinting silver, but Malik had a feeling they were wet for an entirely different reason now. The eagle said those words again, the ones he didn't quite believe meant what he now almost knew they meant, embracing his companion perhaps a little too tightly. The master of Masyaf returned in kind.

"This is too much for you alone, Altair. Take some of the other assassins with you, with three or more of you to handle the guards won't be able to surround you as easily. Going alone would be tantamount to suicide."

The eagle glared at him, "I work alone. You know that, know as well as I do why. I'm not dragging anyone down with me when I fail ever again. If I die, so be it. There are plenty of men to replace me, they'll be just as good with time and practice."

"No one could ever replace you, Altair," Malik bit out, frustration failing to hide his meaning, "I won't allow you to leave this fortress without at least two other assassins. Even if they're just the fledgling assassins. Take someone. Please."

A hint of desperation entered the last word, and the grey-eyed assassin caught it, his demeanor changing abruptly. He looked at Malik, finally _saw_ him for the first time since they began this argument, and had the grace to look abashed for his refusal.

"Fine, I will take a few other men with me," he answered quietly, not even having to voice the 'but only because you want me to' at the end for his master to hear it. Tension eased out of the one-armed man's shoulders as he tried to relax, still eyeing his friend warily.

"Good. If you leave the fortress walls without others behind you, so help me I will ban you from running missions for a month and force you to do menial work in the lower levels."

The younger man nodded, still looking at him oddly, like he was trying to re-evaluate Malik.

"Peace and safety upon you, Altair," he'd never meant those words more before. It seemed like with each passing day they grew more desperate, the dark-eyed man almost demanding that his eagle return to him in one piece now. He often wondered when he'd developed such a fondness for the other, that he felt physically ill every time he considered that at any time Altair could die.

"Peace and safety, Malik. Don't fear for me, I will return. As I always have, and always will," he answered gently, turning and exiting the room. It seemed like, these days, a bit of him always lingered behind. Maybe it was just the older man wishing he would return soon, wishing he never left at all. But as much as he wanted to keep his eagle caged and safe, he would die if he wasn't let free to fly. Malik just had to pray he would always return from his flight.

"He-it was amazing, all those guards and he just killed them one after the other with nothing but his hidden blades, but then we got ourselves in trouble. He-he took so many hits just trying to get to us, and even after that…he was bleeding everywhere, but he wouldn't stop until we'd escaped, telling us to wait for him in the bureau…When he finally made it there, he collapsed, soaked in blood; we thought he was dead. He told us to apologize to you for him, said he was sorry for making you worry."

Malik stared, blankly, at the young man who spluttered all of this in under half a minute. Beside him was the other assassin that had accompanied Altair on the mission, the very one who had tried to kill him with poison earlier, still shocked into silence. The master questioned the choice, but then maybe this was the grey-eyed man's way of proving himself to the boy.

"Get some rest, I will attend to Altair. He made a promise that I intend to ensure he keeps," the older man said, moving past them to get to the infirmary, where he hoped he'd find his friend still alive, if not conscious. His pace quickened as he rid himself of that thought, his eagle _had_ to be alive.

The man guarding the door to the infirmary nodded at him before moving to open it, revealing the injured assassin biting down on the hilt of a throwing knife to avoid screaming as his broken arm was carefully set. By the looks of it, it was broken in several places. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he was already stripped from the waist up, covered in bandages. One wrapped around his head dipped down to cover part of his left eye and face, worrying Malik. Blood was already soaking through some of the cloth on his chest, a fractured thigh bone already set, splinted and tightly wrapped. How he'd managed to run on it was a mystery.

Altair caught sight of his companion standing in the doorway, grey eyes piercing the one-armed man and rooting him to the spot. They seemed to zero in on him, until they became so intense Malik was afraid he'd be caught up and carried away in those twin storms. The healer set another part of his arm and he roared like a wounded lion, head thrown back and finally breaking eye contact. The dark-eyed master suddenly remembered how to breathe.

"He'll be fine, Master. No serious injuries, just a lot of cuts and a few breaks. He's just being a child," the healer said as he turned to face the leader of their clan. As he went about bandaging Altair's legs the assassin glared at him so fiercely that the older man was certain if looks could kill, the healer would be a bloody lump on the floor by now.

"He'll have to remain confined to a bed for at least a month, before he'll be able to even think about putting weight on his leg," the healer continued. The one-armed assassin could barely hold back laughter at look of horror on the injured assassin's face, only the severity of the situation allowed him to stay silent. That, and the thought of the unholy fuss the man would put up after just a week of confinement. A caged Altair was a dangerous beast.

"It's a miracle those boys are alive you know. Reports coming in from civilian spies nearby say there were nearly twice the number of guards they had originally been able to identify. It was a trap. Yet somehow he managed to kill the mark and all the Templars surrounding him, while giving the two fledglings an opening to escape. If it was anyone else, I wouldn't believe it," bent over his work stitching a larger cut on the eagle's lower leg, the youngest of the three assassins spoke to break the silence before it got oppressive. Again, the man laying on the blood-smeared table looked like he dearly wished to strangle the one trying to piece him back together. He had lost his ability to receive praise long ago. It was one of the few things Malik didn't miss.

"They told me something similar themselves. The one that could speak anyways. I think perhaps this mission was a bit too much for the other."

"They'll recover. Just a few scratches and a good dose of terror. We all go through it. Perhaps next time they won't need to be rescued."

"Let us hope. I can't have them endangering more lives with their incompetence."

"Everyone makes mistakes, Malik. I am certain they won't make the same ones twice," Altair said, giving his friend a look.

"Yes. I suppose some lessons must be learned the hard way," he returned with just as much meaning.

The healer looked at both of them, shook his head and finished his work.

The eagle was holding up about as well as could be expected, a week into his recovery and he was practically snarling at everyone who tended to him. Malik was still busy trying to keep the tyrants the area seemed to grow like moss from getting too great in number while keeping his men well-rested enough not to make mistakes. It seemed like every mission took twice as long when it wasn't Altair doing it, making everything that much harder to manage. Somehow, the master still found some time to visit his friend where he was holed up in his room.

Slipping quietly from his desk and into the barracks nearby, his feet carried him to the door he was seeking without any real thought to where he was going. Perhaps he was too used to these sorts of errands. Not bothering to knock, he opened the door to find the caged bird reading. Grey eyes flicked over to him and he set the old tome down.

"Come to torment me further?" His lips quirked up at the edges, despite his words it was clear he was pleased to have company.

"Someone must rattle your cage once in a while. Can't have you getting comfortable."

Altair snorted at the reply as the master pulled up a chair to his bedside. He reached down and picked up the book, the cover worn with age and use. It was a familiar book to him though, it was Al-Mualim's journal. Entries from as far back as when he originally became a Templar up to his discovery of the powers of the Apple. The new master and Altair had been sifting through all of their deceased leader's documents and come upon it. They'd both read it several times, looking for answers that weren't there. Never was there a plan laid out, or reasoning for the betrayal of the brotherhood.

"Do you think I could ever become like him? Consumed by a lust for power?" Stormy eyes had darkened as they regarded the other man, clouds weighted by heavy thoughts.

"Never. You are nothing like him, Altair. You have held and understood ultimate power, and you chose not to exploit it. You chose to help others by making advancements in our weaponry and our healing techniques. You didn't let the knowledge consume you, as Al-Mualim did, you are stronger than he ever was."

"I wonder if you do not hold me in too high regard. Several times I almost fell to the call of the Apple's power. It's intoxicating, it controls your mind after a while. I lost sight of everything important to me."

"But you came back to us. In the end, that's what matters."

The younger assassin opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. His eyes moved like he was thinking, and then he closed them and relaxed. The silence grew uncomfortable and heavy on Malik's shoulders.

"I imagine you're bored out of your mind. Is there something I can do to help?" The dark-eyed assassin asked, finally getting to the real reason he was here.

An instant of hesitation, then, "Would you perhaps read to me? Do something to fill the silence."

"Read? You mean this?" The one-armed assassin waved the journal in his hand.

"Doesn't matter. Anything."

Deciding to humor the other man's irregular behavior, he began reading the journal quietly. Altair never interrupted, just closed his eyes and listened. Subtle changes in expression told the elder assassin that he was indeed listening to the twisted tale the pages wove. The slow cadence of the syllables lulled him to sleep within the hour. It was one of the few times in his life the master of Masyaf saw him look as though he was at peace.

The next day he took time out of his schedule to do the same with another book, and a similar thing happened. He supposed he should be offended that he was apparently so boring that his reading put the injured assassin to sleep, but he had a feeling that wasn't the reason his friend kept falling asleep on him. Besides, the man got so little peaceful rest, Malik wasn't about to begrudge him the sleep he did get after being read to.

The next few days he was too busy reading missives from the assassins out in the field, pigeons flitting in one after the other, and overseeing the introduction of yet more refugees. It seemed there need be no war for people to come surging in waves to their doorstep, disenchanted with their governments, their cities, their neighbors. They monopolized his time with needs they could easily go to any of the other citizens of their stronghold for, and by the end of each day he grew so irritable he told them so.

Finally, three days after he'd last seen his old friend, he was able to visit again. It was late, he wondered if Altair would even be awake. He was far more cautious when opening the door than normal, after the last time someone disturbed Altair when he was sleeping and nearly lost a few limbs everyone had learned to stay far away if he wasn't conscious. The moon was nearly full, silvery light cutting through the windows of the room. Grey eyes shot open and caught the light as they locked onto the intruder, glowing in a way that made the injured assassin seem something greater than human.

"Malik, it's late," Altair greeted, voice hoarse from lack of use before he cleared his throat. The one-armed man knew he was asking why he wasn't asleep, a question that hardly needed answering anymore. The master dragged the chair over and sat in it once again, watching silvery eyes drift down to the book in his hand.

"I have been busy, I apologize. I meant to-"

"I know. I'm surprised you're here rather than sleeping. From what I gather you've been working nonstop since the last time I saw you."

"I would rather spend my time with you than spend it with my dreams," as soon as the words came out he felt his face grow hot, he hadn't quite meant to admit that. But the eagle's eyes grew warm and any regret he had vanished. He opened the book, another journal of a great assassin long passed. The moonlight provided more than enough light to read by, the columns of light from the windows slowly traversing the room as he read. He grew tired, but the sense of peace he got from this small act was enough to keep him from leaving. Somewhere between the stream of thoughts along the lines of "just a few more minutes", he fell asleep.

He awoke to sunlight streaming into the room much like he did every morning he actually made it to bed, but unlike those mornings he wasn't in his room. He was, instead, nestled against the chest of the greatest assassin to have ever lived, listening to his steady heartbeat. He didn't doubt this was Altair's doing, but how the injured man managed to drag him into the bed without the one-armed assassin waking up was a mystery. Perhaps Malik had been more tired than he thought.

He entertained the thought of escaping from his friend's grasp, but he was certain even the slightest movement would rouse the sleeping man. He didn't want to interrupt what decent sleep the eagle could get, nor did he want to be accidentally stabbed. Every seasoned assassin was paranoid, but Altair had more than his fair share of fear and slept with three throwing knives sheathed under his pillow.

Instead, he simply laid there, listening to the steady beat of his companion's heart, his breathing slowly speeding up as he gained consciousness. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed and mumbled something so garbled Malik wasn't even sure what language it was.

"What?" The dark-eyed man asked, lifting his head just enough to look the other in the eyes.

"Nothing. Good morning," he replied evasively, voice still rough with sleep.

"How exactly did I get here?"

A chuckle, "I can only assume you walked, unless you've managed to create some sort of instant travel device you didn't tell me about."

"You know exactly what I mean. How did I end up asleep in your bed? You know you're not supposed to be exerting yourself."

"Well I couldn't leave you sleeping in a chair. It honestly wasn't that hard, I manage well enough with one arm," his face clouded over as he realized the irony of his statement, brown eyes just rolled in exasperation.

"Don't make me punch you again," Malik retorted, momentarily recalling their tussle with some fondness.

The younger assassin opened his mouth to retort when he was cut off by the door opening. They froze and stared as the very novice who nearly killed Altair on the training grounds walked in carrying food for him. He seemed a bit surprised at first, then just proceeded into the room as if nothing was amiss. Perhaps it wasn't.

"Malik, the brothers are looking for you. They seem to think you've gone missing. You might want to appear soon before they send out a search party. I'm surprised they didn't check here," the young man said quietly, all traces of malice gone, replaced by a quiet reverence.

"I suppose it's better they didn't, best to let sleeping assassins lie."

"Unless you enjoy being maimed, yes. The coast is clear for now, the others are searching the grounds and the city for you. I am certain you could slip into your study unnoticed and act as if nothing happened."

The master smiled a bit as he slid out of bed, amazed at how great a transformation this boy had undergone. He smoothed his robes down as he left the room, able to hear the remaining two speaking in hushed tones but unable to make out what they were saying. He made it back to the fighting ring before anyone noticed he was around, at which point several assassins rushed over and asked if he was alright. He just rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Malik!" A fully-healed Altair roared as he stormed into the library and then into the master's study above, several other assassins literally jumping out of his way to avoid being plowed over. The dark-eyed man sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, he had hoped it wouldn't come to an argument, especially not in such an accessible place.

"Altair, you cannot convince me-"

"Goddamn it, what are you thinking? You can't take the Apple to them, you _can't_. Do you have any idea what they'll do once they have it? What they'll be capable of?"

"Altair, they have twenty of our assassins. Everyone who was out on missions was expertly captured by the templars over the past few days. We cannot just let so many of our brothers die. I am certain that you would be able to steal the Apple back before they did any major damage with it."

"You don't understand, once they have the Apple they'll kill the hostages and you and run off with it. I-We can't afford to lose so much. Perhaps I can rescue the captured assassins before time runs out," the eagle attempted to reason, desperation slipping into his eyes.

"The date specified is for tomorrow, Altair, not even you could work so fast. You'd have to find what city they were in, which alone would take several days with our limited resources and even then you'd never be able to get past the multitudes of guards without them making it to the hostages and killing them first. Our assassins could hide in the trees and could stop the Templars at the meeting from killing more than myself and perhaps a few others, I am sure. It will be a small loss, but not one that the brotherhood will fail to recover from."

"But I cannot lose-"

"Altair, we both know you are entirely capable of stealing artifacts from the Templars, getting the apple back will be no problem."

His hands slammed down onto the large wooden desk so forcefully Malik was almost certain it would break as the man began to shout, "This isn't about the goddamn apple, you _idiot. _I don't give a damn about losing it, I can easily lock it to ensure they can't use its power, or use it to make a non-functioning replica. I care about _you_, you would certainly be killed. Maybe the brotherhood would recover from your death, but I would not. I cannot lose you, Malik."

The grey-eyed assassin's voice nearly broke on the last sentence, his volume having petered off about mid-way through his words. The master's voice failed him completely, mouth making half-hearted attempts to form words but nothing coming out, because there was simply nothing that he could say in reply that would suffice. Nothing he could say here, anyways.

"Let me go in your place, I doubt they'll care who delivers it."

"Absolutely not-"

"Malik, please. I could easily take them out with the real apple before anything happened, don't let emotions cloud your judgment," Altair cut him off, sounding maddeningly reasonable. The older assassin wasn't going to win this argument, his eagle was far more stubborn. So instead, he lied.

"Fine, do whatever you want. Tomorrow at noon, don't get killed."

Grey eyes searched his face, but he'd long ago perfected the art of deception, even if it hurt to use it against someone so close to him. He stared the other down until he finally nodded and retreated, giving Malik a last look of suspicion before descending the stairs. The master took a deep breath to steady himself, resolve hardening.

He hated this, having to lie to, having to steal from, having to betray the person he loved most. As Malik snatched the replica Apple off the table next to the sleeping eagle's bed, he knew Altair would hate him for this. He would curse and sob in the same breath over the one-armed man's grave, and that thought made his chest tight. He tucked the orb into his robes, casting one last glance at the younger assassin, face softly illuminated by the glow from the real Apple clutched against his chest. It was possibly the last time Malik would see him, so he took a bit more time watching the slow flutter of dark eyelashes against tan cheeks than he originally planned.

He left the door open a crack, knowing even the slightest sound would cause his friend to awaken. The sun was just barely rising as he mounted the horse waiting for him, the watch nodding to him, his way of saying the other assassins were already in place. Sable whinnied and kicked the stable wall, eyes rolling like the horse actually knew what was going on, that his rider would be furious. The master of Masyaf gave his own mount a gentle kick and rode out onto the fields.

"You surprise me, assassin. I didn't think you would actually appear. I had long thought human lives mattered not at all to you lot."

Malik glared at the Templar, encased in chain mail and a heavy helm. Too cowardly to even show his face. The assassin dismounted warily, eyes drifting to the line of men chained together under guard by ten other Templars. A full quarter of the brotherhood was at stake.

"Every life matters to us, we do not choose to take them lightly. But I'm sure you wouldn't understand that. Give my brothers back, now," he snapped. Normally he wouldn't be so quick to his death, but the more time spent talking meant the better the chances of Altair waking up and realizing he'd been tricked. Every time the one-armed man thought of his friend's reaction his resolve to see this to the end cracked a bit more; he put it to the back of his mind.

"Hand me the apple and I'll have them released," the Templar retorted, the triumphant sneer evident in his voice if not on his face. Malik advanced on him, hand already around the false Apple in his robes. At least half the guards were distracted, watching him in order to catch a good look at the object they were dragged here for. Exactly what he needed, his men would have enough time to kill them before they even gathered their wits about them.

He was a few steps away from the leader of the Templar group when he suddenly found himself surrounded, not by enemies, but by multiple Altairs astride his horse. The brown-eyed man's heart stopped for a moment while he struggled to process it, and in that time several other copies of Altair had appeared on foot beside the other Templars. Blood spurts and screams painted the landscape for a brief moment before it fell silent again, only the sounds of chains being unlocked by the several apparitions breaking the quiet spell.

"Malik," a word spoken so quietly, it was astounding that it held such a great deal of restrained rage that it made the master of Masyaf want to sink into the ground rather than face the speaker. The other copies of the black-clad assassin dissipated as he trotted up beside the older assassin. The real Apple glowed softly in his hand before he stowed it in a pouch at his side, face impassive.

Sable knelt at some imperceptible cue from his rider, now at a height that would allow mounting without a block. The one-armed man slid in behind the tense eagle, trying to control his breathing so the panic stayed out of his body language. He wondered if this was what prey felt like as they stared at the talons of a descending raptor. The great beast beneath him rose back onto its feet and without any explanation Altair gave it a gentle kick, causing it to surge forward with an unusual amount of grace for such a large horse.

The assassins he'd planted in the trees were already attending to their newly freed brothers, no one seemed to have the courage to question where they were going before they disappeared over a ridge. As the terrain grew rougher Malik was forced to carefully wrap his arm around the man in front of him, who in turn brought the hand that wasn't holding the reins to rest on it. The warmth from the hand atop his and the beating of the heart beneath it were soothing.

They got farther and farther into the wilderness, long having abandoned any kind of trail, and all the older assassin could do was watch the scenery go by and wonder what kind of punishment this was supposed to be. Perhaps Altair wanted somewhere to privately curse him out, but if that was the case they could have stopped several minutes ago. He felt like they were actually going somewhere, some place only the eagle knew about.

"Malik, do you know why Maria left me?" His voice was still soft, barely audible above the sound of Sable's pounding hooves. Of course the master had some ideas, but he had to admit neither party had been clear as to the reasons for their split.

"Because of your obsession with the Apple?"

"Yes. Because I became so enchanted by it I forgot about all else. There were days I couldn't remember my name when I came out of a dive into the Apple. Sometimes I wouldn't even recognize her, or our children. I remember so very little of our time together, I barely remember her face anymore. The Apple stole almost everything from me, and in return gave me more knowledge than I could bear and visions of destruction. That is why I cast it aside, why I promised myself never to use its power again. But necessity often causes us to break our vows."

He paused then, Malik knew exactly what he meant. The brown-eyed assassin had forced the other to risk his sanity by calling on the power of the artifact in order to save him.

"Even after I locked myself away, even when I forgot your name, even after everyone else left me, you were still there. You tore me away from the Apple through sheer tenacity. You've been by my side for years, even now I don't know why. You are the only one left who knows me and still believes in me. I took everything from you, and yet you've always been there to give me what I need," he said those words again, and if Malik had any doubts as to their meaning before, he didn't now.

The older man took a breath, then a leap of faith, "I love you too, Altair."

The eagle's breath caught and his heart skipped a beat beneath Malik's hand. Then, he laughed. It was a clear sound, a few seconds of pure joy escaping in the form of sound. It joined the list of the master's favorite things.

"I honestly never thought I'd hear those words. I was worried I'd have to actually tell you that what I keep telling you meant 'Our souls are one'. For those who came before, it was a declaration of deep love. I love you, Malik. I love you."

The beast beneath them had slowed to a walk, and he knew they both had wet faces now. This moment was too long in coming and too soon in arriving at the same time, it was a shock to his system to put words to his feelings. He felt lightheaded one instant and like he was being pulled to the ground by invisible hands the next. Eventually he just buried his face in Altair's robe and breathed, because this was _real_.

Sable sped up a bit now, a gentle touch of the younger assassin's heels to his flanks all the encouragement he needed. At last they came to a shelf of rock that jutted out over a wide valley and the black horse halted before kneeling gingerly to let them down.

"I wanted to show you this place. I discovered it just recently and hadn't yet gotten the chance to steal you away. I…When I woke up to find both my replica Apple and you gone, I was terrified. That I'd never get to see you alive again, never be able to tell you in our native tongue what you meant to me, never get to show you the beauty of this place.

"I'm furious with you for risking yourself after I specifically told you not to, but at the same time I know I would have done the same thing. I just- let me protect you Malik. Please. Just let me keep you safe."

Grey eyes bore into his and he could do little but nod, hoping eventually his voice would return to him. The eagle smiled then, a small quirk of the lips that was as far from a smirk as one could get. He walked over to the edge of the rock and sat down, legs swinging over the edge of a fifty-foot drop. The one-armed man carefully sat down next to him, letting his feet dangle as well. The black-clad assassin cocked his head curiously.

"I thought you didn't like heights, Malik."

"I know you'd never let me fall."

They sat in warm silence and watched the wind blow through the valley below as the sun trekked through the sky. As it set they made for the fortress, just barely making it before dark. If the assassins noticed the way they invaded each others' space on the way through the city, arms brushing in a way that was more than friendly, they made no comment. They knew how to keep their mouths shut and their noses out of the affairs of other assassins.

"I can see it in his eyes," Maria began cryptically, turning from watching Altair play with his sons, who were gaining on six years old now, to look at the master assassin beside her.

"What do you see?" Malik returned evenly, eyes still on the two boys trying to drag their father to the ground in a mock fight.

"He's finally alive again. Not quite like he was before he became enamored with that wretched thing, but more alive than I ever thought I'd see him again. Especially when he looks at you, his eyes are bright again. You- He loves you, doesn't he? And you him, by the looks of it."

Her stern eyes met his as she spoke, but he saw no judgment there, only a quiet sadness and what could have been respect. He let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and nodded.

"He'd been trying to tell me for a while before I finally understood. You're…not angry?"

She laughed, almost a barking sound, and Altair was momentarily distracted by it before one of his boys nearly tumbled from his shoulders and his attention was drawn back to them.

"Why would I be mad? You stayed by my lover when even I had lost hope in him and you brought him back to himself. If I cannot have him I would much rather you did than anyone else, he spoke highly of you at all times. I would hazard to say he was maybe always in love with you, but wasn't ready to accept it. I loved him once, and now…I gave up my chance to have him. He's yours now, even if I wanted him back I could never truly have him as my own again."

"I can't say I would allow you to take him back if you did try. He's all I have left, losing him would break me."

"I think it would break both of you. He needs you now, has always needed you. He told me that you two were once as brothers, more than any other assassin he wanted you to forgive him for what he'd done. Whenever he spoke of you it was like he spoke of something beautiful that he'd destroyed and left to piece itself back together. How did you do it? Stand beside a man who'd taken so much from you, fall in love with him? You forgave him when no one else would, you who lost so much because of him."

"Perhaps the same way you stood beside a man who was supposed to be your mortal enemy. With love. I forgave him because he's a different person now, because he's grown and matured in ways I never thought possible. Where once there was arrogance there's only a pride in his beliefs and his brothers.

"He uses his skill to teach others and to save lives rather than to impress. If you had met him but a year before I am certain you would have killed him rather than love him. I love him because instead of letting himself be consumed by his guilt, he bore it and kept going. He still bears guilt that is truly no longer his to carry."

"From what I have heard of his younger days, I would have to agree that I would probably slit his throat. But…You are a strong man, Malik. I know no one else who would have the strength to forgive what you have suffered, to see past your loss. If someone caused the death of one of my sons, even if it was an accident, I would kill them."

Malik couldn't think of what to say to that, so he resumed watching the antics of his lover and his sons. The boys took after their father strongly, nowhere more so than in their grey eyes. Those eyes alone told the master they'd become powerful assassins one day, though he doubted they'd ever surpass their father in prowess. He hoped they'd have the same strength of character, he had a feeling they'd need it to keep the brotherhood together after their father and Malik were gone.

Altair finally let himself be "conquered" by his boys, collapsing dramatically as they cheered. It brought a smile to the older assassin's face, that the hardened killer could still be so gentle with his children. He laughed as he stood and brushed the dirt out of his dark, close-cropped hair and off his breeches. Altair's smile was bright as the two clung to his legs when he tried to walk across the courtyard to the other two adults.

Maria put a hand on the brown-eyed assassin's good arm and said quietly, her eyes hard, "Take good care of my sons when they come of age. If they die, you're next."

He believed her and hoped it would never come to that. Not only because he feared for his life, but because he couldn't live with the knowledge he'd sent his companion's sons to death. A lesser man would call it revenge for the loss of Malik's brother, but he couldn't stand to put Altair through the same pain.

"What are you two looking so serious about?" The eagle in question asked once he managed to drag himself over to them.

"We were just speaking about the recent skirmishes between the Templars and the brotherhood," Maria returned quickly. Being a high-ranking Templar with the children of a well-known assassin, she was extremely skilled at coming up with believable stories with little time.

Grey eyes shifted between them, like he sensed something wasn't quite right, but then the boys asked him to jump from the tower again. He rolled his eyes and plucked them off before leaving to do just that. His sons seemed to enjoy watching their father "fly". The rest of the brotherhood was similarly amused, but for different reasons.

"He's a good father to them, even if he only sees them half a dozen times per season. I worried at first, that he would follow the assassin tradition of parents keeping distance from their offspring. But he changed that, didn't he? I see no children in the fortress, all of them are in the town below with their real parents, be they assassins or normal civilians. From what I've heard, he's changed many things about the way you work. Two blades, poison, low-key assassinations…The brotherhood has gotten smart about the way they work. My superiors are furious," the woman next to him said with a small smirk.

"Altair changes everything he touches now, for the better. He moves mountains where he once only sought to climb them."

"He moved you, that is for certain. The one mountain he could never summit."

Malik just smiled and watched as a pair of eagles danced screaming through the sky, talons locked as they bonded.

Altair looked pained as he finished explaining the current situation in the East, of a powerful warlord consuming the land's defenders as he rode on China. They both understood what it meant, knew that no one else would be able to complete the job. His sons were novices now, rough diamonds that reminded Malik daily of their father.

"How long do you think it will take, Altair? How many months before I'll see you again?"

"A year, at most. It is a long ride. I must speak to her first though, she will want to come, I'm sure."

"Go then, ride for Acre, then to the west. Send a bird when you are successful. Peace and safety, Altair. Come back in one piece."

"I will do my best. Try not to get killed while I am gone," the younger man replied, leaning over the desk just enough to land a soft kiss on Malik's lips before turning, vaulting over the railing and running out of the building. Rolling his dark eyes, the master got back to work. No doubt that was why Altair was so eager to spend time with his counterpart the night before. He sighed and thought idly about the irony of an old, powerful Templar taking part in an assassination.

In the midst of sketching a map of the ever-growing Masyaf, the one-armed assassin heard a loud tapping at his window. He turned, expecting one of the many pigeons he'd sent out, and instead found himself facing a great foreign bird. Judging by the hooked bill and its grey eyes it was a bird of prey, one of the largest he'd seen. He pushed the window open and cautiously held his arm out. The avian cocked its head to the side to observe the limb before hopping onto it, talons only digging into his skin a small amount.

He drew the bird inside carefully, it was so large it just barely fit. Attached to its leg was a piece of parchment tied with a red piece of fabric that looked suspiciously like it came from an assassin's sash. Setting the bird on the table, lacking anywhere else to put it, he removed the missive and opened it, squinting at the nearly illegible print. Altair's handwriting hadn't improved any.

_We were successful. Will return soon. Sent fastest bird I could find. _

The next few lines had been crossed out several times, before he apparently settled on:

_I miss you._

A smile crept onto his face as he pocketed the message. He just hoped they'd be home soon. Malik had missed his eagle as well. He just hadn't realized how much until now.

A few weeks after the bird had arrived, months after they had originally departed, the three assassins returned to their home. Maria had apparently left them for Acre once they neared the stronghold of the brotherhood. Altair had a new scar across his forehead, a narrow miss he'd have to explain to his lover later, but otherwise they were unharmed. They received a hero's welcome and both of the eagle's sons were promoted to full-fledged assassins.

"So, did you get my message? I sent-"

"An eagle, yes," the older assassin cut him off immediately as they walked towards the living quarters, leaving the others behind to celebrate, "Only you would send such an ostentatious replacement for a pigeon. She has remained with me since she arrived. I missed you too."

He kissed the grey-eyed man just as they entered his- their quarters. The arms around him as they deepened the contact spoke of desperation. His mind resolutely decided that learning of the east could wait, right before he ceased to think entirely.

Eyes met and held, staring searchingly for answers that were already plain to see. For all that their bodies had grown old and frail, their eyes were still as sharp as they were in their youth. Altair nodded, Malik took a breath, and they entwined their fingers before touching the Apple, together. This was probably the first dangerous thing they hadn't argued about in years. This kind of decision couldn't be questioned, even if they had wanted to.

He felt the pull of the artifact, but maintained eye contact with his lover, their moments together from the start of their friendship to the deepest moments of love moving through his head faster than he could blink. He had the sensation of falling as the world began to grow white and foggy around the edges. Still, the grey eyes that had ruled so much of his life remained clear, trained on his. Reality dropped out from under him and everything but those eyes and the feeling of their fingers slotted together faded from his senses.

When he opened his eyes it was like waking up to a fantasy. They were high on a tower overlooking strange lands, whether it was the past, future, or a place that never existed on Earth altogether he couldn't be sure. A strange feeling of heaviness had settled into his left shoulder, and when he looked he understood why. His arm, decades lost in the world they left behind, was there at his side, whole and perfect. Malik flexed his fingers, reveling in the feeling, then looked over to his companion. The other man appeared as he did in his early twenties, vibrant and smiling.

"Come, love. We have a million worlds to make ours," Altair said as he drew the other to the edge of the tall spire they were on. They locked in an embrace before diving off the edge. Together the two eagles danced through the sky, talons locked as they bonded once more in this new land.

**A/N 2: I'm entirely aware I left out a lot of their relationship interactions, I did so because the fic was getting extremely long (You can probably tell exactly where I got tired of it) and because I felt like the pre-slash did a decent job of showing their ins and outs without the kissing bit. I'm sure someone out there feels cheated, so if at least one (1) person reviews asking for a "second chapter" featuring more of said interactions, and/or a chapter about their adventures inside the world of the Apple, I will try to write something for you. Yes, you can ask for both at once if you actually want to. Thank you so much for reading, now if you could just repay my month (literally) of work on this by hitting that review button I'd be so very pleased. **

**A/N 3: I realized that somehow, while adding spaces between paragraphs and breaks in about 26 pages of text, I had missed two areas were there were supposed to be breaks. I know, how could that possibly happen? I have since actually bothered to go through and fix it, because I love you all so much. Also, thank you so much to those so far who have reviewed, you guys seriously make my day.**

**A/N 4: swallowed my formatting so I tried to fix it as best I can. Also, I AM working on the second half of this, but between heavy coursework and getting a 30+ hour a week job, I've been struggling to find the time. It's currently longer than this fic, if that's any consolation? I'll try to get it done in the next month. **


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